Page 89 of The Bargain

The pieces were all right there: a perfectionist oldest daughter. A mother who made her career prosecuting criminals. An unconscious boy with a reputation for being a creep. Two hot-headed twins who both have the strength of rugby players.

A smashed phone, spilled blood, twenty thousand pounds.

There was one piece missing—but I should’ve guessed that piece was Ophelia Sutton-Knight.

Where Desdemona is tall and athletic and robust and golden, her sister is dark and delicate. She has big dark sad eyes and round cheeks that still have the softness of baby fat in them. She’s a kid, still, with her bitten nails and chipped black nail polish.

If it was the twins, as I suspect, who hospitalised Birnam, then who else would they have done so for but Ophelia?

And if Desdemona made a deal with me to cover up their crime, who else could that crime have been to protect but Ophelia?

“I didn’t know he was filming me at first,” Ophelia said to me in a small voice, eyes fixed on the tips of her big black boots. “By the time I found out, it was too late, and he said it was just for him, like wanting to keep a precious memory in a box.” She shook her head, heavy tears rolling down to her chin. “And I know it’s my fault for trusting him. I know I should’ve known better. When he said he liked me, I believed him. Because why would anyone lie about liking… this?” She gestures at herself with a disappointed, deprecating huff. “I was just so grateful someone wanted me at all. It feels so stupid now.”

I’d agreed to do what she asked, of course. Ophelia clearly doesn’t know who hurt Birnam, or what her sister did. She doesn’t know I already have the phone—the planted piece of evidence that will eventually incriminate me and allow me to take the fall for a crime I didn’t commit.

“I’ll hack into his account and destroy the video, don’t worry,” I told her.

“Don’t look at it, okay?” she whispered. “If you find it. Just delete it. Don’t look at it.”

My stomach turned at the thought—at the idea that she’d even have to ask. That what happened to Ophelia has destroyed her innocence enough that she’d assume I’d feel anything but the most profound of disgust at the thought of seeing even a second of that video.

After reassuring Ophelia and agreeing to do my best, I turn to get out of the room she brought us into earlier. With its embroidered banners and four-poster bed and heavy velvet curtain, the luxury feels oppressive and suffocating. All I want right now is to get out, get away from this house, these people, the girl I manipulated and her hurt, terrified little sister.

“Elias.”

I stop at the door and turn around, raising an eyebrow at Ophelia.

She’s not looking at me, pulling hard on the sleeves of her jumper, cheeks dark. I know what she’s about to do before she utters the word, my heart sinking.

“Please don’t tell Desdemona.”

I stare at her in complete silence, the door handle cold underneath my palm.

“This isn’t the kind of secret I can keep from her,” I tell Ophelia finally, softly. “It would destroy her if she found out.”

“She won’t find out. She’ll never find out. I promise.”

But Ophelia doesn’t know how deeply tangled Desdemona already is in all this, the things she’s already done to try to protect her siblings.

“Desdemona wouldn’t be angry at you,” I say, lowering my voice. “She’d just want to help. You know that, right?”

“I know.” Ophelia shakes her head and swallows so hard I hear the loud gulp of it, heavy with repressed feelings. “I know, I just—I just… I can’t tell her. She can’t know. You wouldn’t get it, alright?” She looks up, eyes brimming with tears once more, her eyeliner a hazy smear around her dark eyes. “She’s so… Desdemona is perfect. She never makes mistakes, never does anything reckless, or stupid.”

Oh, Ophelia, you have no fucking idea.

“Mum and Dad, they—they worship the ground she walks on. She’s everything to them, the entire world. Like they just took the best parts of Mum and mixed them with the best parts of Dad and created her.”

Her breath shudders. Her voice is a low, exhausted rasp, like she’s letting out a confession that’s been crushing her chest for years.

“And I’m the leftover bits. I’m what’s left after all the good stuff’s gone. I fuck things up. I ruin things. I break things that I don’t know how to fix.” She clenches her hands into fists. “And I, I know how I sound, okay?”

She draws closer, almost like she’s pleading with me.

“I’m not jealous, if that’s what you’re thinking. Well, I am, but not the way you think. I—I love Desdemona. She’s my sister, my first friend, my fucking hero. All I ever wanted was to be like her. But I’m not—I’m this, this weirdo, this huge mess, and I don’t know why or how to stop it, but I can’t stand it, I can’t stand the way she looks at me now, like I’m this problem she has to fix, this lame stray she always has to patch up and look after.”

She sniffs hard and shakes her head, glaring up as if I’ve said something, when in fact all I’ve done is stand, silently hearing her out.

“I don’t want Desdemona to help me. I don’t want her to fix my problems and look after me. I want her to look at me and think I’m strong, too, just like her, like Mum. I want her to be proud of me—not pity me. I don’t ever want her love to feel like charity—I’d rather she hate me.”